The Secrets of Roscarbury Hall

by Ann O'Loughlin

  ‘We don’t know that. Talk is only talk. Mary Murtagh is long gone. There is no way of proving the gossip. Gossip holds no legal sway.’

  ‘I am glad.’

  Ella, spit spilling out the corner of her mouth, sat down.

  ‘Debbie has passed away. I don’t know if you’ve heard.’

  ‘I am sorry.’

  ‘She had such little time.’

  ‘She did.’

  They sat, the dog scratching in the corner the only interruption to their thoughts.

  Roberta eyed Ella closely before she spoke. ‘Michael Hannigan left his fair share of pain.’

  ‘More trouble than he was worth; I only wish I’d known it back then.’ Ella reached for a spoon and twisted it around her hands.

  Roberta picked at the tablecloth, like it was something she had to do. ‘Me too,’ she said, picking deeper.

  They sat quietly opposite each other, the clock ticking on the mantelpiece and the chuntering of the hens on the back step the only sounds. Roberta got up and took the bottle of sherry from inside the tall spaghetti jar in her cupboard.

  ‘I told Muriel if she continued to spread gossip about Michael, I would go to a solicitor.’

  ‘You did?’

  Roberta spun around. ‘Don’t I love Roscarbury as much as you?’

  Ella shook her head, trying to dislodge the tears she felt bubbling up. ‘I know,’ she whispered.

  The phone ringing in the hall prevented her saying more. As Ella rushed to answer it, Roberta poured a sherry and made her way to the library. She had settled into her chair at the window when Ella put her head around the door.

  ‘They have made better time than they thought. They are coming into the town. Five minutes at most,’ Ella said, her voice shaking.

  Roberta did not answer immediately, concentrating instead on fixing the old blanket over her knees. ‘I will stay out of the way.’

  Ella hesitated but did not answer, walking away slowly to take up position by the drawing-room window. She wanted to run to the toilet, but she knew if she did they might come and it would be terrible to have nobody to answer the door.

  The sun was streaking across the gardens, dazzling around the old ash tree and making the water on the fountain sparkle. Her mouth was dry; a pain ran up the back of her neck. She felt so sick she thought she might throw up, so she squeezed the back of the old velvet chair to distract herself. When she saw the big black car turn up the avenue, she thought she would pass out. She knew her face was as flared red as the dress and she cursed her stupidity at picking such a young person’s colour.

  The car moved slowly, the driver wary of the potholes. She should have had Mick Hegarty fill in the bad one, midway between the gate and the entrance, but it had never occurred to her until now.

  She leaned, but could not get a glimpse of the driver. The woman in the front looked heavy and appeared to be wearing a hat. Ella patted her hair and cleared her throat; her body was stiff with expectation, her head pounding with pain. So transfixed was she watching the avenue, she did not hear the drawing-room door push open.

  Roberta walked up and stood beside her sister. She was not sure if Ella noticed. The car came to a halt at the front steps, but the driver reconsidered the position and reversed slightly, so that the steps were clear. Ella gasped as the car pulled back.

  Slowly, Roberta reached out and caught her hand, squeezing it gently. Ella pressed her fingers into her sister’s frail skin. Roberta did not say it hurt, nor did she pull away.

  They watched in silence, holding hands as James got out of the car, looked around with a broad smile on his face, and gave a low whistle.

  ‘So like his father,’ Ella said, her voice faltering.

  ‘Yes,’ Roberta answered, squeezing her sister’s hand tighter.

  ‘Michael would have liked that,’ Ella said, squeezing Roberta’s hand back. ‘Shall we go and meet him together?’ she added quietly.

  Roberta did not need to answer, and they walked hand in hand to the front door to greet their guests.

  Acknowledgments

  My late father, Patrick, was a born storyteller; my mother, Anne, a huge reader. They reared their five children in a house of stories and books. Patrick and Anne O’Loughlin lived in a small place in the west of Ireland, but they opened up the world for us through their love and support. I owe them everything. Thanks is such a small word for the support they gave to me and my dream of writing. Neither would the dream have become a reality but for the unstinting support of my husband, John, and my wonderful children, Roshan and Zia. Not once did they let me give up; I love them all the more for it.

  A big thank you to my agent, Jenny Brown, who never wavered in her belief in my writing, and to all at Black and White Publishing, especially director Alison McBride, my editor Karyn Millar and rights manager Janne Moller for their good humour and expert advice.

  To all my friends in the world of journalism and law, as well as my local community and those dear to my heart in India; I would never have been able to stay on the road to publication without your warm words of encouragement.